


Thomas Jefferson's Coming Home

by avxry



Series: the first line [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Mentioned Eliza/Alexander, Rated T for language, alexander is Sad and thomas is there, historical era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8218828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avxry/pseuds/avxry
Summary: Three times Thomas Jefferson comes home, and one time Alexander wants him to.





	

Thomas Jefferson's coming home.

Alexander's hands are almost shaking. He is about to meet _the_ Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Independence, a man Alexander has idolized since he first read the document.

Alexander stands beside Washington as Jefferson flaunts into the room, clad in magenta, of all colors, but Alexander doesn't judge yet.

"Mr. Jefferson, welcome home," Washington greets, and Jefferson nods back with a confident smirk.

"Mr. Jefferson?" Alexander greets, his hand out. "Alexander Hamilton."

Jefferson acknowledges his introduction but ignores his outstretched hand. Alexander raises an eyebrow as the man he has admired since the beginning practically _prances_ away from him.

He reminds himself to not jump to conclusions.

That doesn't last for long.

Then comes the cabinet meeting, which soon turns into a cabinet _battle_ instead.

Washington introduces the issue on the table, and Alexander prepares himself for a slew of insults from Jefferson, none of which will be correct. He straightens himself just before Jefferson begins.

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," Jefferson says arrogantly, striding to the center of the room and claiming the attention of all. "These are wise words; don't act surprised." He gives a little laugh to himself. "I did write them."

He shrugs with a smirk as he and Madison share a look. Alexander rolls his eyes.

"Now, Hamilton's plan would have the government assume state's debts," Jefferson says, then leans forward as if sharing a secret, "which benefits the very seat of government where he resides."

"Not true!" Alexander exclaims, but he expected nothing more than cheap lies and low blows from his opponent.

"If New York's in debt, why should Virginia bear it?" Jefferson asks rhetorically. "Stand with us -"

He gestures to Madison.

"- in the land of the free, and pray that we never see Hamilton in power."

"Thank you, Mr. Jefferson," Washington says, even though Jefferson seems as though he could have kept talking. "Secretary Hamilton, your response."

Alexander smirks to himself and raises a cocky eyebrow to Jefferson, who takes only a small step away from the center of the room.

"Thomas, that was a real nice declaration," he begins, "but would you like to join us in the present now, or just keep doing whatever the hell it is you do in Monticello?"

Jefferson looks offended and Alexander finds himself pleased at the thought.

"If the government assumes the debts, the union gets a new line of credit," he continues. "It gets a boost; you'd rather give it a sedative. And don't forget, your debts are only paid because you don't pay for labor."

Jefferson raises a brow and rolls his eyes at Alexander, who almost sneers in his direction.

Alexander goes on to say some things that may or may not have been appropriate - "Jefferson and Madison, sitting there useless as two shits" - and that made Washington command, "Madison, Jefferson, take a walk; Hamilton, take a walk!"

He tries to explain that it's not fair, it's not as if Jefferson and Madison have a better plan in mind, they just don't like his, but Washington gives him a look that clearly says, "Governing isn't always fair," and Alexander feels foolish without exactly knowing why.

He exits the cabinet room fuming. Never has he hated Jefferson more. 

***

Thomas Jefferson's coming home.

Alexander's home. Thomas Jefferson is walking to Alexander's house right now, he can see him through the window, and there is no one he would like to see _less_.

Jefferson shies away from some children playing in the street, as if he might catch something from them, and Alexander sneers at him in disgust.

Eliza is out around the town with the children. They leave almost every day now. Since he published the Reynolds Pamphlet, he sees less and less of them. He guesses he understands their side, but why can't they understand _his_?

Jefferson knocks on the door loudly, and Alexander wonders if he ignores him maybe he'll just go away.

"Hamilton, I know you're inside."

Apparently not.

He sighs exasperatedly and wills himself to not look as annoyed as he really is. He opens the door to find Thomas Jefferson standing on his step, infuriatingly tall and composed, yet hilariously out of place in his purple suit.

"What do you want?" Alexander greets coldly. He can't find it in himself to feel bad about it.

"Listen, Hamilton," Jefferson says, "You've written yourself into a whirlwind of hell, and no one is on your side - "

"Did you come here only to tell me how wrong I was?" Alexander cuts in, raising an eyebrow. "Trust me, you aren't the first."

"Actually, no," Jefferson says. "May I come inside?"

"Why?" Alexander questions, desperately wishing Jefferson would just let him wallow in pity for a little longer.

"Hamilton, will you be civil for once?"

"No."

Jefferson rolls his eyes dramatically and pushes his way through the door frame, past Alexander until he's inside. "Have you eaten?"

"What does it matter to you?" Alexander says with a defiant huff, shutting the door, accepting that Jefferson won't be leaving yet.

"Damn it, Hamilton, there is no one on your side anymore, and I'm trying to help."

Alexander raises an eyebrow. Why? What could Jefferson possibly be getting from helping him? He follows him into the kitchen skeptically.

"Why?"

Jefferson begins rummaging through his cabinets, seemingly looking for something in particular. When he doesn't find it, he sighs and turns to face Alexander, who stands in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Because what you did was stupid. It was ridiculous and made no sense and you've ruined your entire political career. But I understand why you did it."

Alexander looks incredibly uncomfortable and is only annoyed further by how _not_ uncomfortable Jefferson looks. This is Alexander's house, damn it, and Jefferson should not be here, trespassing on his only place of peace.

But still, Alexander can't help himself from feeling slightly grateful; finally, someone who understands what he's struggling here to do. Eliza doesn't understand, Angelica doesn't understand, the people don't understand. What are the odds that his one true opponent would?

He doesn't let this train of thought show. A single friendly statement does not a friendship make.

"Thank you. Now, kindly, get the hell out of my house."

They lock eyes. Alexander's are hard and definite. Jefferson's seem to be hiding something else. Alexander assumes it's a mixture of pity and disdain; that's what he gets from everyone else.

Finally, Jefferson sighs. "Fine. Don't say I didn't try."

Jefferson heads back to the door. Alexander follows him. "It was surely a pleasure," he says sarcastically, opening the door.

"Goodbye, Hamilton." 

***

Thomas Jefferson's coming home.

Alexander can see him down the street. They're both heading in the direction of Jefferson's house. They've both been walking, it seems. That's all Alexander does anymore - walks around uptown. It's quiet, calm. It's a good contrast for what's been happening in his head. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees his face - Philip's - looking up at him, tears in his eyes, looking sadder than he had the right to at only nineteen, he was so young and so _good_ and it's not _fair_ and -

"Hamilton?"

The voice comes from directly in front of him. He looks up to see Jefferson looking down on him - damn his height - with what looks like concern.

Alexander can't bring himself to care. "Jefferson."

"Are you alright?"

He only shrugs. He doesn't look at Jefferson. He looks anywhere _but_ Jefferson, not necessarily on purpose. He doesn't really look at anyone anymore.

Jefferson sighs and mumbles to himself, "That was a stupid question. Come on, let's go inside."

Alexander doesn't have the energy to say no. He just follows Jefferson into his unfairly large house, not saying a word.

If the outside of the house was elegant, the inside is even more so. Ornate designs are on nearly every surface, polished furniture and floors and shelves, and Alexander would feel uncomfortable, if he felt anything anymore.

He doesn't know where Jefferson is leading him until they enter a large room that he assumes is the den. He stops just inside as Jefferson reaches a cart that holds glasses and probably whiskey. He pours the drink into the small glasses, then places one in Alexander's hand.

"Drink," he says, "you look like you could use it."

"I'm not supposed to be drinking."

Jefferson frowns, not at his response, but at how it came out. Alexander's voice is flat and dull, uninterested.

"Just one won't hurt."

"Promised Eliza."

"Well, we won't tell her."

"Too many secrets."

"Jesus, Hamilton, just take a drink," Jefferson says, and takes a swig of his own, gulping it down and relishing in the burn in the back of his throat.

Alexander hesitantly follows suit.

After a moment of silence, Jefferson says, "I've seen you walking."

"It's quiet uptown."

Jefferson looks at Alexander with sympathy in his eyes. Alexander doesn't notice. He's taken to staring into his glass, as if trying to intimidate the whiskey instead of drinking it. He loses the battle and takes a sip.

"I'm sorry about your son, Hamilton," Jefferson says quietly, somberly.

Alexander nods once. "Me too."

Jefferson never met Philip, but everyone knows what happened. Everyone knows about the duel, everyone knows about the Hamiltons' loss, and Alexander didn't even have to write about this piece of gossip. News travels fast.

Jefferson is about to show Hamilton the door when he finally talks.

"I knew about it."

Jefferson takes a sip. "Knew about what?"

"The duel," Alexander replies dryly. His voice has no inflection, still flat as before. "Philip came to me, asked me how to duel. I gave him my guns."

Jefferson purses his lips. _That_ he hadn't known. _Oh, Hamilton, you really are an idiot._

Still, he finds himself saying, "It's not your fault."

" _I gave him my guns!_ " Alexander shouts angrily, his eyes raging as he looks at Jefferson, who nearly jumps at his outburst, though he _is_ relieved that Hamilton has regained some emotion.

"He came to me, and - and he asked me how to duel, and - he told me where he'd be, and -"

Jefferson sets his glass down on the cart and approaches Hamilton, gently taking his elbow, but Hamilton jerks away.

"He dueled Eaker because of _me!_ " he nearly screams. His breathing becomes labored as he continues, "He dueled Eaker because he talked about me! Philip - " he winces at the name " - challenged Eaker to defend me, and . . . And I let him do it. I sent him on his way."

Hamilton seems on the verge of a breakdown. He starts shaking and his eyes gloss over. The glass, still half filled, drops to the floor and shatters on impact. Jefferson flinches but takes his elbow again and gently leads him to the sofa and sits down beside him.

"Hamilton," he says firmly. Alexander pays no attention. He's trying to hold back sobs, and Jefferson is dreadfully uncomfortable, but he presses on. "Hamilton, look at me. Look at me." He complies. "Breathe. In and out. Breathe."

Alexander seems to be listening. He tries to even his breathing, keeping his eyes on Jefferson's. It doesn't even register how odd this is.

"It's not your fault," Jefferson continues, and Alexander finds that his voice is a beacon; he latches onto it and steadies himself with it. "Your son's death is not your fault."

Alexander winces. The phrase "your son's death" catches him off guard; no one is forward enough to be outright with him, but it's refreshing, reassuring. He finds himself calming down.

He nods. Jefferson nods back. Neither says a word. It's much too quiet in this room, almost suffocating, and Alexander is overcome with the need to get out of there immediately. Jefferson's presence is intoxicating and it's too much, it's all too much, he can't handle it.

He rushes out the door, leaving it wide open in his wake. Jefferson sighs, shuts the door, and shakes his head.

Two days later, Alexander walks by Jefferson's house again. He doesn't stop, doesn't look over, but Jefferson sees him through the window and furrows his eyebrows in concern. Alexander passes by, seemingly not even noticing where he is. Jefferson assumes he probably doesn't.

Five days pass since Jefferson led Hamilton inside, and though Hamilton still walks by every day, he has given up on the idea that Hamilton might knock on his door.

That is, until Hamilton knocks.

Jefferson raises his eyebrows in response; it's much too late for any regular visitor; then again, Hamilton isn't a regular visitor.

He opens the door to see Hamilton standing there, looking pitiful. His eyes are surrounded in purple, his cheeks are sunken in and he somehow seems smaller than he did a week prior.

Jefferson doesn't say anything, just steps aside and allows Hamilton inside. He shuts the door behind him and follows Hamilton into the den again, where the man is helping himself to the glass of whiskey Jefferson had actually made for himself.

He raises an annoyed eyebrow but says nothing. He makes himself a new glass and stands in front of Hamilton, takes him in.

Jefferson almost can't understand how a man who used to be so vibrant and passionate and full of life could be reduced to this, a husk of who he used to be; but then again, Jefferson had lost his wife a few years previous. He knows loss, and he knows Hamilton.

So he doesn't say anything when he refills his glass and downs that one quickly too. He doesn't say anything when he drops onto the sofa in a disheveled heap. He doesn't say anything when a light snore comes from the other room as he finds the book he had been reading.

He has his maid fix macaroni and cheese while he reads in the den, keeping a watchful eye over Hamilton, who has slid into a horizontal position on the couch. His snores grow more obnoxious, but Jefferson finds it in him to not wake the man.

When the maid announces dinner, Jefferson gently shakes Hamilton's shoulder, who wakes in a flurry and ungracefully rises to his feet. Jefferson tries not to find his ruffled hair and puffy eyes endearing.

He convinces Hamilton to eat dinner before walking back home ("This dish is not at all appetizing, Jefferson.").

It becomes routine. Every few days, Hamilton will show up, fall asleep on his sofa, and eat his dinner. Then he'll find his way back home, only to return again two days later.

One day in particular, though, Hamilton arrives, right on schedule, and rushes in past Jefferson immediately, in a frenzy.

Jefferson follows him to the den, where he already made two glasses of whiskey in anticipation of Hamilton's arrival.

Hamilton gulps both of them down in succession.

Jefferson doesn't say anything. He waits for his cue.

"Eliza and I got in a fight."

There it is. "What happened?"

"I told her - about my guns."

Jefferson flashes back to the first night Hamilton came into his house, the first time he really saw Hamilton vulnerable. He feels a wave of sympathy wash over him.

"Hamilton -"

"She yelled," he continues, pretends he doesn't notice his voice cracking, "and yelled. And I yelled back, but - but I don't know why. She's right." He shakes his head at himself, pours more whiskey, and drinks it in one swig. "I gave him my guns, and he died. My son died, and I enabled it."

"Hamilton, no," Jefferson says, striding over to take the glass out of his hands. "It's not your fault." He feels de ja vu, saying the same things he did the first night. He doesn't know why he's so intent on reassuring Hamilton. He's doesn't know when he started to care.

"But it is," Hamilton says. He's lost all fire in his voice now, he's lost all passion. He's deflated and broken again, and Jefferson feels something in his chest. Hamilton begins to sob unabashedly into his hands.

Jefferson is afraid for a minute, he's unequipped to deal with this level of emotion, but he clenches his jaw and walks over to Hamilton, placing a hand on his back gently and tilting his head to be at eye-level with him.

"What do you need?" he asks softly, still not entirely comfortable, but he pushes through it. When there's no answer, he says more firmly, "Alexander, tell me what you need."

The use of his first name seems to jolt him out of his stupor. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and Jefferson resists the urge to step away.

Alexander sniffs loudly and rubs his eyes and mumbles, "I need - I need someone who understands."

Jefferson immediately remembers his arrival at Hamilton's house so long ago, after the publishing of the Reynold's pamphlet ("But I understand why you did it."). He nods solemnly.

"I understand, Hamilton. 

***

Thomas Jefferson's coming home.

Alexander waits anxiously on Thomas's doorstep, wringing his hands until they feel raw. Thomas left two weeks ago for a trip to his home in Virginia to visit his daughters, and Alexander has been awaiting his return since the moment he left.

He's still constantly surprised at how much his affections have grown for Thomas. He finds it hard to believe that years ago, he hated Thomas more than he hated anyone, thinking him completely insufferable.

Maybe he hadn't hated him as much as he thought.

His regular visits to Thomas's house during the fallout of Philip's death had brought attention to Thomas's softer side; he comforted Alexander an indeterminate amount of times, and Alexander is forever grateful. His political opponent took him in and took care of him, something that Alexander doesn't know that he would have done, were their positions switched.

Their friendship only grew, and Alexander found himself growing fonder of his new acquaintance, until the fondness blossomed into something he was admittedly scared to acknowledge.

Somewhere along the line, Alexander fell in love with Thomas Jefferson.

And now, here he is, standing on the doorstep of the object of his affections, waiting for him to return from his trip, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

After two weeks of not seeing Thomas, Alexander has decided that he's done standing still, lying in wait. He's chasing after what he wants, and what he wants is Thomas Jefferson.

His stomach flutters as a carriage pulls in front of Thomas's house, and he has to remind himself to breathe as the man himself steps out with a grin on his face.

"Alexander!" he greets happily.

"Thomas," Alexander smiles back, and they embrace warmly. When they pull apart, they share a look, their eyes saying more than they can bring themselves to articulate.

"How was your trip?" Alexander asks as they both grab Thomas's bags and haul them inside.

"It was lovely," Thomas answers with a smile. They drop the bags at the door, not bothering to move them any further. Thomas goes to the kitchen and retrieves a glass, fills it with water.

"You have to see Virginia," he continues, taking a sip. "It's beautiful there. You can see for miles, rolling fields, endless skies. It's so peaceful."

"You know better than anyone that peaceful doesn't suit me," Alexander counters with a smirk.

"Well," Thomas shrugs, smiling softly. "You'll have to come with me next time, see my girls. They're dying to meet you."

Alexander jokes, "Yes, either I come with you next time, or you don't go." He's not joking as much as he pretends.

Thomas doesn't say so, but he agrees - he missed Alexander on his trip, despite how glad he was to see his daughters and relax in the country. He looks over at Alexander and he is filled with emotion.

Everything about the man is endearing. The way he casually leans on the counter, the way his lips are always slightly turned up into a soft smile, as if he always knows something that nobody else does. His hair is never pristine, it's always mussed up somehow, and his eyes are tired but still bright. He's slowly become himself again since his son's death.

Thomas is constantly surprised at how their relationship has changed. They started as distinct political enemies, sworn opponents, arguing at every corner and finding new ways to annoy the other into oblivion. But Alexander has slowly become the most significant person in Thomas's life, and though he was reluctant at first, Thomas wouldn't change anything.

He sets his glass down in the sink and turns to face his friend, who hasn't taken his eyes off him. He smiles gently, then purses his lips.

"Alexander - "

"Thomas - "

They both chuckle at themselves and lock eyes again. Finally, Alexander says almost sadly, "What are we doing, Thomas?"

The question catches him off guard. He doesn't know.

"What is this?" Alexander continues, taking a step forward. "We can't keep this up." He takes two more steps, and suddenly they're almost touching. Thomas has to look down to meet Alexander's eyes.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "But I missed it."

Alexander seems to release some tension he has been harboring in his chest. He smiles widely. "Me too."

They're smiling like idiots, they're so close that their breath is colliding between them. Alexander doesn't even realize what he's doing when he says, "I love you."

Thomas catches his breath. In the back of his mind, he already knows this. He already knows that he and Alexander are connected by some form of love; he's just now understanding what kind.

He doesn't answer. Alexander starts to get nervous, but before he can try to talk himself out of it, Thomas's lips are crashing onto his. He stomach drops but he wastes no time; he reacts immediately, grasping desperately at Thomas's hips, then at his chest, then at his hair, tangling his fingers in the messy curls as Thomas backs him against the counter, ravishing his mouth.

Thomas lets out a desperate whine and Alexander tilts his head further to get a better reach. Their teeth clash and it's messy and their mouths are on fire. Thomas tugs at Alexander's hips, trying to pull him impossibly closer as their breathing becomes labored, but they don't stop, they've waited too long. Alexander lets his tongue slip out and it collides with Thomas's. Thomas hungrily devours his quiet moan, still pinning him to the counter roughly.

Thomas pulls away to breathe, Alexander chasing his mouth as he does. They're breathing heavily as they lock eyes, both in a frenzy, still wrapped up in each other's arms.

They don't speak for a long time; they just stare, until Alexander feels a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He lets it overtake him, and soon Thomas is joining in, laughing at the situation and at Alexander and at himself, and it's good and he's happy.

For the first time, Thomas Jefferson is truly coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> yay for jamilton! i originally didn't ship it and now here i am... i've got another one-shot on the way that's much longer and might actually become chaptered but let's not get ahead of ourselves
> 
> this isn't beta'd so there are probably some typos; i have gone back and checked but i usually miss some, sorry 
> 
> hopefully this is as in-character as i think it is. it's probably not but i tried.
> 
> i put this in a series because i would very much like to continue the series (they would all be stand-alones and begin with a line from the actual production, hence the name "the first line") but also, knowing me, there's a big chance that won't happen so :(
> 
> thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed it, and as always, i appreciate any type of feedback!
> 
> (you can scream at me about things on tumblr @avory)


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